It was a beautiful day in South Gippsland, last Sunday. Flowers were at the peak of their bloom and cried, "Pick me, pick me!"; the horsies were neighing, "See those hills? I can take you there, baby"; and the wide, open spaces were just begging for a good frolicking. Ben and I weren't silly, though. We knew the real action was to be found at the beach. There, we would laugh into the sea breeze, sipping on delicious bottled water and shifting uncomfortably in our rag-like clothing which we had specifically worn.. to paint a house. Whaaaaat?
You see, my mum and her brothers recently acquired my late uncle's home which they decided to keep in the family. They've put a lot of work into restoring the house, with a lot more to go, so my sister volunteered herself, Johnny and I to do the weatherproofing. Though happy to contribute, I was immediately anxious that any attempt by me at DIY would somehow lead to setting myself on fire ("Well, the tin says 'flammable', so.. guess I light it?"). Ben wasn't overly keen, either, but our tree-lopping, landscaping, fisherman, man's man brother-in-law Jason reassured us with his experience and the added incentive, "We'll have some beers after."
It was 'a tad disconcerting' then, when Bec called Sunday morning to say that Jason had gone fishing and she didn't have a sitter for my nephew, Clay (who had just woken up, right behind schedule). The painting had essentially been left to an artist (of the soft-handed variety. Sorry, hun. Your gym calluses are hot, though), a baby, a dude with Lupus (that's all you are to me, Johnny!) and two useless girls! (Not to be sexist. But, seriously.. Men should do all the hard work. Then rub my feet.)
Jason's promise to finish any work we left undone avoided the use of his very blood for paint. Bec turned out to have a little experience with painting, at least, and any questions we had left were certainly answered in the hundred page letter sent from England by my uncle, which listed all the things he wanted us to do (the painting at an easy number 1...). His letter was punctuated with the admittance he thought it best to be absent for our working bee, thereby avoiding his usual stigma of 'control freak.' AHHEEMM...
Since agreeing to the painting, I had noticed a growing reference to all the jobs we would be doing for our 'working bee'. Don't get me wrong - though I would abuse men in accordance to traditional gender roles for my own convenience, and it seems that I am so inexperienced in physical labour that I have to blog about it - I am actually not opposed to hard work. I just get a lot more done when I actually know what I'm doing! I had doubts we would even get the painting finished (sparked by my best-friend's comment, "You're not gonna get the painting finished." She also predicted I'd pee all over myself when I had to squat on a camping trip. She doesn't have a lot of faith in my ability to.. live).
All set to disappoint, whatever our accomplishments, we strapped our disheartened spirits to job number one and I was surprised when I found myself actually having fun (a few hours before the paint-sniffing headache set in. I recommend glue, instead - it's a better high).
There some hiccups when we were getting started. Johnny had to gurney a few areas, and when he re-emerged covered in flecks of mud and woodchip, Bec was reminded, "Oh, yeah.. I meant to tell you not to go too hard so you don't get covered in shit." There you go, John! Apply that, past tense.
I had also thought of bringing my good ladder from home (see? I'm handy 'n' shit) but decided we'd already be set with the necessities. Well, there were only two rickety, relatively short ladders and all I could think about was my workmate's husband who'd been severely injured falling from a dodgy ladder. As Ben was the tallest, he got the bullshit job of leaning a dangerous ladder on a dangerous angle and reaching for the highest planks. He soon grew sick of me 'spotting' him and preaching 'safety first!' Also, I criticised his painting technique (just to make him feel at home. "You're doing it wrong! You'll never amount to anything!" You know, typical wife stuff).
There were a few other items that would've been useful to bring. We couldn't find ice cream containers (as recommended in the letter from England), so we used cheap mixing bowls from the house for paint and tea towels for rags, Bec all the while reassuring, "I'll buy new ones." Eventually that attitude became so second-nature, I imagined us just painting over the windows and saying, "Ah, fuck it, we'll buy new ones. Grumble, grumble.." It's a free-for-all!
I had arrived in a singlet and shorts, picturing an easy little montage where we all dabbed paint on each other's faces and got a tan. As I had to prune a lot of branches away from the house to make room for my ladder, however, whatever tan I did achieve was ripped from my skin, inspiring a new vision of showing up to work, where we have to wear tiny shirts, looking like a botched (or successful?) alien experiment. Yeah, you know all the glamour's gone out of your life when you feel a bug go down your shirt, whilst holding a bowl of paint at the top of a ladder, and your only option is to think, "I'm gonna assume that wasn't a spider."
I started to feel that sun after a while, and when I told my sister I needed a 'second coat' of sunscreen (I'm a total painter now. Got the lingo), she began to sing, "We're painting the Rosie red!" as in the original Alice in Wonderland. I don't know if it was all the paint-sniffing, but I found that utterly hilarious (so I'll repeat it here, in case it is).
Little baby Clay was well-behaved throughougt, even taking a nap after his sleep-in. It's a baby's world! Ben's Mum took pity on us when she heard we were a small crew + baby, so she came along to watch the boy for a while. Ben's brother, who is dealing with a custody battle for his own son at the moment, also came for the ride. It was nice to see them getting to know my nephew, but I was sad to know they couldn't enjoy the same freedom with their own son and grandson. It is simply unfair and a terrible waste.
On the way over to the beach, Josh drive Kerry's little black hatch and insisted on staying in front of us, even though we knew the way. When he stopped for fuel, Ben and I took the opportunity to get in front, but were soon overtaken with a finger stuck out the window for effect. Once we hit Foster, I could see Josh was going the long way through town, so I gave Ben a short cut to take back the lead. We rejoined the main road just as a little black hatch was approaching, so we shot out in front and gave them the finger, totally satisfied. That is, until we realised Josh and Kerry were still in the lead and we'd just given the finger to strangers! Oh, well, it would've given them something to wonder about all day (I'm sure they'll be telling future grandchildren).
At the end of the day, our patient little Clay-boy began whining a little and when all the adults joined him in this, we decided to pack it in. We called past Mother's for a hearty meal and the reminder that no matter what we had or hadn't done (including tearing through and leaving her a pile of dirty dishes), we were all perfect angels. Ahhh. But, of course.
